Malls, make up, frog's arse

I remember that when St George’s square opened, there was some controversy as to what it should be called. The spot where it was built was known locally as ‘Paddagat’, which means Frog’s hole, or frog’s arse: Afrikaans isn’t too particular in distinguishing which is which. People didn’t want to rent shops in the ‘Frog’s Arse Center’ so it was dubbed ‘St George’s square’ and used to be the place for shopping.

Now the mall has been built, and everyone (except me) goes there instead. All the ‘best’ shops have moved there, and the square is something of a ghost town of stores with the fronts papered shut, occasional second hand emporia, a pharmacy. Retail paradise has moved and paddagat is purgatory.

Commercial forays remind me of other things plastic: someone sent me a mail today with a presentation showing an ordinary looking girl, various steps in the make up application process and the final product: all glitzy and gorgeous.

I think it was supposed to make me feel better. ‘Those girls are no prettier than you’ is the hidden message, but the one I get is ‘These girls wear make up. You don’t. They look great. You don’t’. You need to invest a few hours, girl and you might be just passable thereafter.

Almost, almost it persuades me to spend more time in front of the mirror, but though its lowering to think that you could look so much better than you actually do (if you’d only make the effort), its even more lowering to think how much time it’d take up. I’d have to get up half an hour earlier if I took that long on primping, and that’s what some girls use on their nails fer crying out loud. Life’s too short for that… but then I have to live with looking ordinary and I’m not, really I’m not.

Tell you a secret: I have a dazzling personality (hyperbole for effect, but only a slight exaggeration I assure you), but I think I’d prefer, really prefer to have dazzling looks. Silly I know: a bit like the Frog's Arse Center trying to be the Mall.

Oh bloggeration!

I’ve been enjoying my little surfings through the blogosphere, although blogs do sometimes make me stretch my claws. There seem to be blogs about all sorts of things: even blogs about blogs.

Blogs about babies: there seem to be tons of those, I suppose someone out there – if only the writer – really does want to remember that little Johnny threw up on the couch and took his first steps today. They’re generally a bit sickly and soppy, peppered with words like ‘sweet’, ‘adorable’ and ‘precious’, but I suppose parenthood does that to people. Wouldn’t know, thank goodness. They make me feel slightly nauseous, but then I’m the opposite of sweet, adorable and precious.

There are also a lot of bogs about how people spent their day. Some are amusing, some are interesting, and some are mundane – what people had for breakfast, how many times their bowels moved, went to the shops and then went home etc, etc. Then there are blogs about how wonderful life is and how happy the writer is, and they’re full of inspiring quotes, and they seem to keep it up indefinitely. I doubt its sincere, but there it is, and perhaps it gives them a lift writing such stuff. Bet you anything you like the authors are clinically depressed, poor things.

There are pretentious blogs. Yes, I know these are people’s thoughts (At least their public ones), but some of them are pretentious, pompous people, so I suppose its natural that there should be a fair amount of pretentious, pompous blogs to match. It’s a pity that some of them can’t spell and use grocer’s apostrophes. It rather spoils the effect.

I’ve also read some pretty bad poetry, blogs dedicated to complaining about things, blogs about obscure hobbies and crafts, peculiar sexual proclivities, music, sports – the list is endless.

I think a blog is like talking to yourself out loud. You never know who might be listening, so what you project is a public persona: the sweet mommy, the person with the hunky dory life, the intellectual, the poet. Occasionally, I see a blog that seems to be completely sincere, but they’re thin on the ground and its still a public image – so self censorship seems inevitable.

I’m not sure what I’m trying to project, although I’ll freely admit that my blog is sanitized: the slightly scrubbed version of maundering mutterer, only slightly tarnished. Hope you like my semi-effulgent thoughts.

Doubtful Reflection

I came upon a grand quote about doubt last night: 'The only thing I don't doubt is my doubt'. Of course I can't remember who done said that, but who cares? I like it. I shall make it mine.

There was another one about skepticism being the root of knowledge, but I'm skeptical about that one.

Doubt's good stuff, ditto skepticism, it stops one from believing in stuff like the tooth fairy, the easter bunny and altruistic politicians. I've had it since I was tiny too, so you can't say its the cynicism of middle-age, or that I ever had any faith to lose. I never believed in Santa Claus, not ever.

Doubt's a process though, and I suppose it leads to belief of sorts: I doubt I'll get up this morning - ah, but I doubt my boss will accept that, so I believe I'll get up and go to work after all.

....and that's where I am now. Deep, hey?

Botox and sixpack

I'm so gorgeous today that I could eat myself: lips as puffy and pouting as a supermodel's and without having cost me a cent either.

The beauty secret I've discovered mayn't be for just anyone, though, because it involves head butting a six pack of beer (in the dark, I have an excuse) and splitting your lip open a bit. Then you grab your mouth, jump up and down, say 'Ouch - Ouch - Ouch' and laugh at the same time. (I'm not sure if this step is absolutely necessary, but it was fun). Then you drink the beer and it soothes away the discomfort and tastes nice while you're at it.

Beer's great value: first it expanded my chest, and now its puffing up my lips, plus I get to drink it (which is why I initially bought it in case you were wondering). Plastic surgery would have cost me a bomb, and I wouldn't have got a thing to drink, not even a cup of tea. Ripoff.

Falling down Splat

Today I'm thinking about falling down: 'Splat!'. Not the messy type of falling down that results in injuries or damage to property, that's more of a 'squelch' or a 'tinkle tinkle crash' depending on which of the two it is. I'm talking about those times you fall hard, land loudly and are able to get up and walk away with only bruises to ego (and possibly knees) to show for it.

I've done it quite spectacularly on occasion. Luckily, I'm not too worried about impressing people any more, because it does make one look silly and clumsy. Having come to terms with the fact that I am both silly and clumsy, I live with falling down splat much better than I used to, which is just as well because I also seem to be doing it more frequently. Here's a pic of me contemplating the next splat.

These days, it involves the mountain and invariably there'll be a stream or waterfall for me to slide into after splatting. Actually, my first memorable splat was in a concrete canal, so only the environment has changed. I remember that one, it was my sixteenth birthday and I was taking the 'freeway' through Pretoria that my mates and I frequented - namely the canal.

It was one of those deep, concrete canals with only a trickle of water going down the middle and occasional patches of slime where storm water pipes drained into it. My friends were discussing all the times they'd fallen into it, and I have to go and say 'I've never fallen into the water before' just as I put my foot on a particularly verdant patch of slime and went arse over tit. Splat!

The splatting wasn't so bad, but it was a bit iffy walking around with my new skirt all coated in green and rather smelly slime. I looked like the swamp thing, I did really.

Another good splatting happened when I was a working gel on a farm. The boss used to come once a week, and I'd invariably be covered in compost smears and plant blood (which isn't always green). So the boss says 'You're the manager around heah, please make more of an effort to look like one.'

The following week, I'm all geared up for her visit, wearing my best trousers, and I inform the team that I'm staying clean for the boss. They all know I'm edgy about the visit, so when her car comes in to the farm, the worker I'm talking to says 'Here she is!', so I turn around to look, only the pathways are red clay and wet from the irrigation so with the turning I find I'm suddenly spinning like an ice skater. I try to stop spinning and... Splat! Red clay from head to toe.

I limped up to the boss's merc, and I must have been a sorry sight. 'I think I need a shower' says I, and she looks me up and down and says in the coldest of tones 'I think you do.' No bloody sense of humor.

My recent splattings have been only slightly less messy, but at least they've taken place in the company of friends, which means that they laugh, but only after I've confirmed that I'm alright, and then they tease me like anything and I laugh too becuase fortunately, fortunately I'm not too upset when I'm caught doing something undignified and ungraceful.

I've a feeling I'd have to go 'underground' if I did mind, really. I seem to do it a lot.

The beach was wide from side to side

Alright, so this bit of ‘news’ is about a week old. Okay, so its not introspective or poetic or anything like that, but oh yes, the piccies are nice, and slightly exotic for my reader (I’ve got one, honest). I mean, the ‘to the beach’ sign is in Afrikaans, and that beach is EMPTY, which is something not everyone sees.

That’s the thing about being a ‘local’: when the weather’s magnificent and the beaches swarm with tourists, we hide in the forest, and once the water starts getting cold and the wind’s a bit nippy and the tourists have gone home, we hit the beach. Typically perverse behavior, but at least I go to the beach sometimes, which is more than many do.

When you live by the sea, its just this big no-go area where the land comes to an end and its not much use to anyone, and its all full of sand and the wind blows a lot, so hardly anyone ever goes there. I hardly ever do. Should though. Does me good.

How not to behave on the weekend

I’m a nice girl, I promise. I’m usually quite well-behaved, and I don’t get kicked out of pubs. Might have come close this weekend though, what with one thing and another, but then Waldo would offer to arm wrestle with the pint sized power house (That’s me).

One should not let the youth (that’s Waldo) treat their elders lightly, and I wasn’t going to give in without a fight. Respect: that’s what its about, young man, take that! My hand might all but disappear in your ginormous paw, but you will fight for this victory if its to be yours! And of course, I can’t pass up the challenge, can’t have the lad thinking I’m a wuss or something…

So when he put his arm down on the table with hand held just so that you know it’s a challenge, I took the hand firmly and the challenge with fervor. The arms were just beginning to tremble as our muscles tensed and the battle had just begun in earnest when… the table gave way with a sudden, loud cracking sound (at first I thought it was Waldo’s arm), drinks went a-sliding and folks were either fielding their glasses like top class cricketers after the winning ball or jumping out of the way of toppling booze.

Yes, I know its not to my credit: breaking furniture in bars, and so I probably shouldn’t tell you that later on in the evening, Candice and I ended up dancing on the bar stools (fortunately without casualties) because I wouldn’t dance on the counter, having been convinced of my ability to destroy counter-tops or tables. No, I won’t tell you about that, or you might begin to think me a hooligan, and I’m not. Honest